Sick
by Annalore
Summary: John takes care of Punk while he's sick. Punk/Cena, slash.


John walked back to the bedroom, a question about how to work the X-Box on his lips. It died when he saw Punk face planted on the bed, still fully clothed. Punk had gone back to change, but he hadn't gotten very far. His sneakers were lying on the floor, kicked to the side, but he still had his socks on.

John rounded the bed and sat down gingerly next to Punk. "Hey," he said softly, as he lay a hand on the back of Punk's neck. He was rewarded by a pitiful whimper. Punk's skin was burning, and John thought he felt hotter than he had before. He got back up, went in the bathroom and wet down a washcloth with cool water.

When he got back to Punk, he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His skin was flushed, definitely feverish, and he was clutching his stomach. John lay down next to him, pressed the cool washcloth to his forehead. Punk started at the temperature difference, but left it there.

"John," Punk said, his voice low and raspy, his eyes bright and unfocused with pain.

"Shh. Rest," John told him. "You'll feel better soon."

He thought Punk was going to say something back, but then his eyes widened, and he rolled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom. John knew better than to try to follow him. He just felt so helpless right now. Punk was suffering, and all he could offer him was platitudes. It was too little.

Punk shuffled back into the room, hollow eyed and shaky. He crawled into the bed, rested his head on John's chest. John wrapped an arm around him, rubbed his back. Punk burrowed in closer. They lay there for a while, saying nothing. This was, at least, something he could do. He could give Punk the comfort of his body.

Between the two of them, he knew he came off as the more open, the easier to know, the nicer one. Punk loved to crack jokes about it, haze him a little, and he took it as good naturedly as he knew how, but it was Punk that thrived on being around people, that seemed to need contact almost as much as he needed air to breathe. He resolved to let Punk be the one to pull away first.

Punk did pull away eventually. The air on the bus was cold after Punk's feverish body heat, and John almost wanted to roll over, bury his face in Punk's shoulder. But Punk was groping for the washcloth that had fallen among the sheets. He pressed it to his face with a groan. John reached out and touched his skin where his shirt was riding up and snatched his hand back quickly.

"Maybe you should take a cold shower," he suggested.

"You saying you wouldn't put out?" Punk asked from beneath the towel, his voice dark with humor. At least he sounded coherent enough. John couldn't help a snort of amusement.

John got up and started the shower, turned it to a nice, cool temperature. Punk followed him, pulling his shirt over his head and kicking off his jeans on the way. He almost got in with his socks still on. He stared at John uncomprehendingly when he pointed that out, and John bent down and took them off, one foot at a time, despite getting a face full of Punk's dick. Punk understood that well enough from the way he grinned and chuckled.

"In," John said as he stood, slapping Punk's ass for emphasis. Punk went. John was surprised there wasn't steam rising off his skin as he stood under the spray, and Punk turned the water even colder. John left him for a minute to get a towel and clothes, then leaned against the wall and watched as Punk turned under the water, trying to cool down his entire body.

Finally, when John was starting to think the water might run out, he seemed satisfied, and turned off the shower. John opened the door and handed him the towel. Punk took it, and, holding it in one hand, stumbled out of the stall and into John's arms, all hot and cold and soaking wet. John held him close anyway, brushed back his hair, kissed his temple.

"I'm so fucking tired," Punk whined.

"Then let's go to sleep," John suggested, like it was just as easy as that. He hoped it would be, though it very seldom was with Punk.

Punk pulled away, started drying himself off. Luckily, the towel had protected the clothes John was holding from getting wet, and Punk pulled on the pajama pants and t-shirt without protest. They were John's, because John loved seeing Punk in his clothes, his most comfortable plaid bottoms and his favorite shirt, in this case, hanging loose on Punk's slimmer frame.

While Punk took another trip to the bathroom, John got out of his wet clothes and into pajamas himself, and slid into the bed. When he got back, Punk slid in, not as week looking as before, but still miserable. He moved close, but kept a distance between them. John wasn't sure if it was respect or Punk's insistence that he didn't want to get him sick. Either way, Punk didn't say anything about that now, he just pulled the blankets around himself and closed his eyes.

John leaned in and kissed Punk on the forehead, then pulled back. He found himself wishing he had an armful of Punk right now, warm and drowsy and prone to snuggling. But he didn't make a move. The shower had done Punk a world of good, but he was still feverish. John didn't want him to get too hot.

Punk drifted off, his breath easing and his body going lax. As John watched him sleep, he thought, incongruously, of the X-Box. They'd been planning on watching a movie, and he'd been setting it up, but he still couldn't figure the stupid thing out.


End file.
